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Riley
In its centuries of history, Stonewall University held about ten black-tie fundraisers annually. Alumni dinners. Galas. Auctions. Stonewall knew the value of their benefactors and tapped it at every opportunity.
This was the first time I’d ever had a name placard on a table, though. A ten-thousand-dollar table. I sipped the glass of champagne Roman had plucked from the tray of a passing waiter.
He bent so his mouth was pressed against the shell of my ear. “I have a fantasy.”
Of course he did. My body melted. “Do tell.”
“It’s one of those sent to the principal’s office fantasies.” The heat from his breath spread to my belly and beyond. “I was a naughty boy in high school, and I had the hottest principal. Once I walked in and I could’ve sworn she was playing with her pussy before I got there.”
Oh, God. I would happily find an office and we could recreate whatever he wanted so long as we ended up with his dick inside me and me screaming his name.
I rotated so I was facing him. “Aww, you need me to get my paddle?”
“Promises, promises.” He barely got the words out when a woman walked toward us. She wasn’t quite old enough to be his mother, but she was too old for the squishy hug she gave him. She had the artful silver hair so even the color and texture it had could only be achieved in a salon, and her dress was cut low enough there wasn’t much doubt her boobs weren’t real, but she was pretty.
“Roman Hawthorne, you don’t usually attend these functions.” And her voice was low and sensual. She could have just as well been asking him to strip her naked.
“Danielle Parson, this is Riley Keller. She’s a student at Stonewall.” He rested a hand at the small of my back. “Riley, Danielle is my former high school principal.”
I cocked my head at him, then shook hands with her. “We were just talking about how much time Roman spent in the principal’s office during those all-important formative years.”
She grinned at him and winked. “Yes, he was a personal favorite of mine.” There was enough suggestion in her tone that I wondered for a full ten seconds exactly how close to fulfilling his fantasy he’d come. “We certainly spent enough time together.”
Roman glanced down at me and waggled his eyebrows as soon as she excused herself to speak with someone else.
“You knew she was here.”
He chuckled. “Of course I did.”
“Did you guys…?” Not that it mattered, but I was curious.
“Not until I graduated.” He guided me through the room to the bar area. “Get a drink. I have to speak to Asher for a moment.” Before he walked away, he kissed my cheek and dragged his hand from my shoulder down my bare back to the low dip just above my ass.
I smiled at the bartender and ordered a Chivas. When he handed me the drink, he also slipped and envelope across the counter, then drew his hand away as if it had burned him.
The Scorpio Society crest was stamped in wax on the black flap, and I broke the seal to pull out a card written in delicate script. “Room 317. Leave the contents of your handbag hidden in the top left drawer of the desk.”
I’d not touched my little silver clutch for more than a second since I stepped out of the limo after I reapplied my lipstick. Then I’d left it with coat check since all it had inside was that damned tube of Merry Mauve.
After I tipped the drink back like it was a one-ounce shooter, I retrieved my tiny purse and opened the closure. In its black silk-lined depths, three tiny baggies of white powder winked up at me.
I flipped it closed and cast a quick glance to make sure no one was paying attention to me, then slipped down the corridor to a set of double doors. The faculty offices for the Literature department were just steps beyond.
Room 317 belonged to Professor Harrison. He was my Lit professor and I’d heard the rumors. So many rumors. But I was a good student who didn’t need to barter my body for a better grade, so I hadn’t had any interaction with him.
He was just pulling his door shut, so I pushed my boobs up and walked toward him. “Professor Harrison?”
He lifted his head and quirked a brow. “Miss Keller.”
Out of the hundreds of students forced to take his class as a fourth-year requirement, he knew my name, which meant he’d noticed me, at least. And I was going to use that to my advantage.
“I was hoping I would see you tonight.” I ran my finger down his skinny black tie. He was old enough to be my dad, but he was thin, fit, dark-haired—although I suspected he’d discovered the hair dye for men club—and looking me up and down, but without any of the leering I expected.
“You were?” He had a messenger bag slung across his chest like he was one of the hip, happening students who used the idea of poetry to pick up women.
I shifted closer, allowing him to breathe in a few whiffs of the thousand dollar an ounce perfume Margaret had given me when she’d brought me this dress and let me borrow the gazillion dollars’ worth of jewelry around my neck and in my earlobes.
